Darkest Hour
by always krissy
Summary: "I will not let it be destroyed today." [written for the one ring challenge]


Title: Darkest Hour   
Author: Krissy   
Disclaimer: J.R.R Tolkien owns them, I do not. This is set in the movie 'verse, to be clear.   
Author's Notes: This is for the One Ring Challenge, and I don't know about it. It is pretty dark. Inspired originally by Dana, and thanks to Hope for glancing at and telling me it wasn't horrible (and for title help!). *grins*   
Rating: R   
Pairing(s): Boromir/Frodo, implied Frodo/Sam   
  
  
  
  
  
  
"It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing."   
"Boromir. Give the ring to Frodo." Aragorn's face held no sympathy for the other man. His eyes bore into Boromir as his hand gripped the handle of his sword.   
  
Boromir's boots crunched against the snow as he approached. "As you wish, I care not," he murmured. His eyes were glued to the gold ring that dangled in front of his eyes. He fell to a stop, in front of the hobbit, and reached out, as if to give it to him. Frodo reached out to grab it, but Boromir swiftly brought his hand back to his side.   
  
"Give it to Frodo. Boromir." Aragorn released the sword, but did not raise it.   
  
Boromir contemplated the words, but then shook his head, coldly staring at the other man and hobbit. His fingers curled into a strong grip around the chain, and his stance stiffened. "How easy it would be. To give the ring back to it's bearer, and follow to its destined end. It takes a stronger man to use it for what others refuse to see in the darkest hours." He wrenched the glove off his hand, dropping it simply onto the snow. "I will not let it be destroyed today."   
  
And that was the last time the Fellowship would see Boromir together, for he had already decided their futures.   
  
---   
  
The light of the full moon was almost as bright as the sun, but it did not fill the room with its false joy as the sun did. It only bathed the room with light that went unnoticed by its sole occupant.   
  
An untouched platter of food sat on the tiny wooden desk that Frodo Baggins worked at. He worked with a quill and a blank book as a candle burned away besides him.   
  
"I'd be eatin' now, if I were you, Mr. Frodo, sir."   
  
The calm voice always was able to soothe Frodo and he felt his lips curve into a tiny smile.   
  
"I know, Sam. But I cannot eat. Not right now."   
  
"I know that, sir, but you must. Please eat for your Sam."   
  
Frodo laid down the quill, and turned to look at the corner. He could see Sam's firm outline in the darkness.   
  
"Only for you, Sam, will I eat." He picked up a piece of the fruit, tracing the outside skin with the tip of his tongue and he savored the juices that dripped. "How are you doing today, Sam?" he asked conversationally, nicking the inside of the fruit with his teeth.   
  
"Just fine, Mr. Frodo, sir."   
  
"I'm glad. How is Rosie doing today, and your children?"   
  
Sam didn't reply, and Frodo didn't expect him to. He dropped the fruit back onto its plate. Sam always went silence when they were to get a visitor. He picked up the quill and continued his writing as he waited.   
  
Frodo loved to write. He didn't know what exactly he wrote, but just what came to him. Sometimes he wrote of the past. Life on the Shire, with Sam, Merry, and Pippin. Sometimes he wrote about the quest. Meeting Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. About the elf princess Arwen. Sometimes about memories of Gandalf. There were many happy things to think about.   
  
As long as he was never interrupted, he could lose himself in a bliss that could only be described as utopia. Life was once again perfect.   
  
But today's utopia would not last and Sam *always* knew when not to bother Frodo and his master.   
  
---   
  
There was triumph in Boromir's eyes when Frodo felt himself come. The hobbit's shuddering breaths were like music to the dark lord's ears. To see just pain on Frodo's face each day was like waking to the forgotten sun.   
  
"You have done well," Boromir coyly whispered. "I am glad you cannot keep your silly promises longer than a day. It always saddens me to see you in such denial."   
  
Frodo pressed his trembling lips together. It would be better not to respond to the baiting Boromir daily produced. It would only cause the man to smirk and lightly caress his body into coming again.   
  
"Ah, now, Frodo. Why must you hate me so?" The sincere tone of voice was betrayed by the mocking smile. "To think I rescued you from the Ringwraiths, and let you live in my home. You could be dead now, just like the rest of your foolish friends. Or," he mused quietly, "that is what you wish? To be tortured slowly into a welcome death, only to be brought back from the light to have it all over again, then left to die slowly in a dungeon. I believe you witnessed that with your servant?"   
  
"Do not speak of Sam in such a way."   
  
Boromir bit out a short bark of laughter. "You will not speak to me in that manner, Mr. Baggins. Or you *will* meet the same fate as your loved ones." His right hand rose into the air and striked him sharply against the cheek. Frodo let out a whimper and Boromir smiled, satisfied with the response. "You will not tempt me into doing something we both should regret, little one. You are mine now, just like your ring is."   
  
There was a predatory gleam in his eyes as he lowered his hands to Frodo's hips. He pressed fingertips onto the pale and creamy skin, and lightly trailed paths with his fingers.   
  
"In this act," he said harshly, "remember who has the story to tell. And you, my dear hobbit," he whispered, "are about to be finished."   
  
---   
  
Frodo liked to write.   
  
He wrote of his past tales, and sometimes, of something darker, after visits with Boromir. He wrote of torturous screams, and eyes gleaming in pain, and of last breaths that were labored.   
  
He wrote of lands being destroyed, and people crying for mercy, about animals being burned to death, about children crying for their parents that would never come home.   
  
He wrote of the eye of Sauron, and Boromir's blind faith and ruling, and his plan for domination. To destroy everything in his path the ring advised him of.   
  
Sometimes Sam whispered things to him that he'd forgotten, that Frodo would add to his notes. Like the taste of blood in his mouth, the feeling of pain that would wrack his body, the feeling of Boromir's hands on his body.   
  
There was one tale he never wrote about, but he often told Sam the story.   
  
About how the ring would corrupt, and turn someone's own faith against them. How it would be impossible to move past the promises it offered.   
  
"Why, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked one time.   
  
Frodo smiled grimly, and he repeated the words Boromir once spoke, "Because it takes someone stronger to use it for what others refuse to see in the darkest hours." 


End file.
